from MEDICINE to MIRACLE

HOW MY FAITH

OVERCAME CANCER

Dr Mary Self and Rod Chaytor

Dedication

This book is dedicated to

Dr Robert Clewlow,

father and physician

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

I didn’t die I lived.’

And now I’m telling the world what God did.

God tested me, He pushed me hard,

But He didn’t hand me over to Death.’

Extract from Psalm 118, ‘The Message’ version

1

‘Trust you, Little Lady, to be different!’ exclaims Mr Peach. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything else from a doctor’s daughter, though!’

I look into the eyes of an expert. He gives me a broad smile and turns to my father who has brought me to hospital. They begin an earnest conversation in hushed tones, using unfamiliar words. I listen for a while, not wanting to be excluded. I hear snatches of words that sound important but I don’t know what they mean. I do not really understand the atmosphere of alarm I have created since I told my dad about the lump on my leg.

I just feel relieved they have not mentioned the dreaded ‘C word. I push the thought from my mind. I don’t know anyone young with cancer. Seventeen-year-olds don’t get cancer, so I switch off and daydream. I seize the opportunity to examine the room of this kind and clever doctor whom I already hold in the greatest of awe. Tall, strong and imposing, he seems to fill the room completely and yet his manner is so gentle. I like to be called ‘Little Lady’. It means he sees me as an adult. Yet underneath the surface I am as scared as only a child can be.

It is Boxing Day 1982. We are in Mr Peach’s office at the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool. It is large and square with a solid desk in the centre. A grinning life-sized skeleton stands sentinel in the corner. Interesting pictures of bones and joints line the walls. I recognize some of the names from my years as a nursing cadet in the St John Ambulance Brigade and I look dreamily around as I long for the day when I, too, will have an office like this.

Mr Peach wakes me from my reverie as he approaches, swinging a small metal hammer. Instinctively, I draw back, my eyes wide with alarm. He laughingly explains: ‘It’s a patella hammer – to examine your knees. Hop on the couch now and let’s see that leg of yours.’

Gingerly I stand and limp over to the examination area. My left knee is now so painful that my ‘hop’ is stiff and awkward.

Deftly, Mr Peach examines my knee. He tells me what he is doing and I feel proud when he acknowledges that I will have to learn to do this soon. He knows I want to be a doctor. I flinch as his hands encounter the lump I discovered on my leg two days before. I see a concerned look spreading over his face and my heart misses a beat. Why is everybody so twitched about this thing?

‘So tell me how you found this, then,’ he asks me, prodding my knee.

‘I went for a jog, and when I came back my leg was hurting. Then I noticed the skin was red and warm and I could feel this lump.’

‘So it has never hurt you before, then?’

‘Yes, maybe a couple of times over the last few months, but it has never hurt as much as this before and I only noticed the lump on Christmas Eve.’

I think back to the first time I became aware of the throbbing pain in my knee …

It was a perfect autumn day, although late in the season. The sort that stands out in the memory with all its bright colours and bonfire smells. All Saints’ Day, 1 November 1982, and my younger sister Helen – known as Hellie – and I took a break from revising for our examinations. We had been working companionably at our studies, she for her O levels and me for my A levels, for many months now. We had settled into a pleasant routine of sitting together, surrounded by our books, taking turns to make each other hot drinks. We had grown very close since our older sister, Frances – who I call Franny – left for physiotherapy training college. We had earned some time off so Mum and Dad planned this half-term trip to the Lake District for a treat. We awoke with an impatience and urgency to be away from the dreaded revision, only to be told by Mum and Dad: ‘We’ll leave straight after Mass.’

Hellie and I looked at each other conspiratorially. She is much braver than me, so she always does the talking.

‘Oh, Mum,’ she moaned, ‘do we have to go to Mass today?’

‘Yes,’ Mum replied, in her no-arguments voice. ‘It’s a holy day today.’

Hellie and I pulled long faces at each other before she started to dig me in the ribs, fighting for the most room at the mirror to complete her tedious make-up routine. She can be very vain and spends ages looking after her appearance. Laughing together, we set off for Mass and then to enjoy our day out.

We knew that trying to dodge Mass was a long shot anyway. My family are Catholics, really strict Catholics. Our lives have been punctuated by Holy Communion and confirmation services and Holy Days of Obligation for as long as I can remember. We are never allowed to miss Mass, ever. It is written in tablets of stone. We all go to the eleven o’clock service every week, no exception. Especially now that Martin, my big brother, has stopped going to church and there has been a really big deal about it. He says that there is no such thing as God and my mum is very upset about the whole thing.

I am the middle of five children born to my parents over eight years. My youngest brother, Adrian, is four years younger than I. He is very shy but a talented musician. Martin is the eldest and four years older than me. When we were children he teased us all the time and mercilessly persecuted my sisters and me by torturing our dolls and teddy bears. He is twenty-one and in his second year reading chemistry at Manchester University. Franny is two years older than me and in her second year at college. She has also caused an almighty stir in our family because she has been going to a different church. It is not Catholic, it’s Anglican. My mum and dad are very upset. They do not approve of the vicar, who is called Tony, and whenever Franny comes home there are lots of rows. But I quite like Tony; he seems to help my sister a lot. She tells me her whole life has changed since she got to know Jesus. I am very close to Franny. We share a love of sport. For years now we have gone along to gymnastics lessons and walked home together after athletics practices.

Hellie, who is fifteen, is different from Franny and me. She is dark-haired, extremely attractive and very vivacious. Sometimes Franny says Hellie is the beautiful one, I am the clever one and she is the courageous one. Just now, getting over breaking up with my boyfriend, Martyn, I wish I was the beautiful one. He is a third-year sixth-form pupil so he is older than I am and I would say that he is certainly a great deal more street-wise. I was so surprised when he took an interest in me. I don’t feel that good about the way I look and he is a bit of a catch. When he asked me out I couldn’t believe it. At first I just wanted a boyfriend but I soon loved being with him. I think I was probably already in love with him. When he asked me to go a bit further than just kissing, I was shocked and pleased at the same time. But – and there is always the ‘but’ – I knew it was wrong. So that’s how it finished and now, well, I miss him dreadfully. It has been a bit of a blow to my pride, so since we broke up I have been putting all my energies into entering medical school.

My dad is a general practitioner. There is a special bond between us. When I was born, he saved my life. He has told me the story many times.

‘You were awkward from the very beginning,’ he begins when he recounts the drama. ‘Your mum went into labour unexpectedly on the ante-natal ward and then your shoulders got stuck. I was visiting and I had to deliver you – a good job, too, or you would have died.’

‘What happened next?’ I always ask.

‘Well, you weren’t breathing so I had to resuscitate you. It was the most stressful moment of my career, trying to get a tube down your tiny wind-pipe.’

‘But I made it!’

‘Yes, and that’s why you are called Mary. I called you after the Virgin Mary, to whom I prayed while I was trying to save your life.’

My mum is also wonderful. She is everything you would want in a mother. She is gentle and loving, but she has this way about her. It is impossible to argue with Mum. She is wise and kind and everybody loves her. Sometimes my sisters and I look at her old photographs, admiring her figure and her curls. She was so beautiful, and still is. Her eyes are clear blue and honest, her smile takes over her whole face. The earliest memory I have is sitting in her laundry basket, listening to her playing the piano and singing to me. My mum is a beautiful singer and she leads the church choir. My dad adores her. She has devoted her whole life to her family and she is, as my dad frequently tells us, the heart of our home. Although we are sheltered, I know my parents love us a lot and I have never wanted for anything. Yes, I would say we are very close.

We have lived in Blackpool all our lives. We children all attended a church primary school and went on to Catholic secondary schools. I became a proud pupil of Layton Hill Girls’ Convent. The downside to this has been the total absence of boys from our life. I am just not equipped to deal with a boyfriend and I blame the system for that. What do you say to a boy when you don’t know anything about them? The only thing we have ever been told about sex was one lesson when Mrs Pollock drew a pretty bad picture on the blackboard. She said that it was a man’s penis but really it could have been anything. I can’t believe she used to be a nurse! So, as far as boys go, I am embarrassingly shy and I never know what to say to them. I guess they find me pretty boring, really.

Last year the school merged with the Catholic boys’ grammar, St Joseph’s, where my brother Martin used to be a pupil. Now it is called St Mary’s Roman Catholic High School. Hellie and I have both become interested in the recently formed ‘God Squad’ at school. There has been a big religious revival. It used to be regarded as pathetic to be seen at lunchtime Mass but now it is considered fashionable. It is all very exciting and loads of girls hang out in the chapel, singing and practising new songs. Sometimes I have gone to youth meetings with the God Squad. The last one was really fabulous. There were young people from all different types of churches – not just Catholics. Somebody got up to speak and told us about how Jesus had helped them through all kinds of problems. It made me think a lot about my own faith. Then, at the end, they asked people to go forward if they wanted to know Jesus, but I was too scared. I thought I might get laughed at. So I just stayed there with the God Squad instead …

So, back to All Saints’ Day and our trip to the Lake District. The golds and yellows of the autumn leaves were just about turning to a burnished copper as we trudged through the leafy lanes of Ambleside. The thrushes were devouring the bright red berries. My sister and I kicked through the fallen piles of horse chestnut and sycamore leaves, searching for conkers and helicopter seeds.

I think I looked around with a different focus that day. I could almost see the hand of a magnificent Creator all around me. The colours, sights and sounds of autumn seemed more vivid, more beautiful than ever before. Maybe to outsiders my life seemed to have everything and to be perfectly happy, but sometimes I felt an emptiness. I had heard that the love of Jesus could transform lives and turn them around – and how I wanted that to happen! I was aware of a hunger inside me, a need to link in some way with God.

I was deep in my thoughts as we passed a tiny village church, the sort that is photographed for guide books and postcards. I noticed a creaking mossy lychgate flanked by two huge yew trees. The crumbling gravestones were covered in a tangle of ivy and weeds. Here and there a couple of vases of bright dahlias cheered up the graves.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ I shouted to my sister, and ran down the path between the headstones. Cautiously, I pushed open the heavy oak door. The grating sound made by the rusty hinges startled the jackdaws gathered in the steeple. Inside was dark and cool; the only noise I could hear was the distant cries of the frightened birds. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the shade and I took in my surroundings. The autumn sunlight flooded in through the stained glass windows, pictures of the saints in reds and blues dappling the stone floor in many different hues. I headed towards the altar and, as I did so, a beam of sunlight streamed in through the side window and fell on the golden cross which had been arranged as the centrepiece of the sanctuary.

I knelt close by and seemed to be bathed in a warm golden glow reflected from the cross. The peace and silence of this place was almost palpable.

‘Jesus, if You are real, if You are there, take my life and transform it, too. Use me, Lord, for Your service.’

I didn’t really know what I meant by it. It’s the kind of prayer they say at these youth meetings where everybody seems so happy and joyful. As I stood to leave, I felt a pain shoot down my leg from my knee. It was so painful that I drew my breath in sharply.

‘That’s strange,’ I remember thinking. ‘I must have strained my muscles. Too much jogging!’ I limped slowly out of the church but by the time I caught up with my sister the ache had disappeared.

I visited Franny the following weekend and she invited me to accompany her to the friendly and welcoming church she had become part of. We have always been taught, at school and at church, that there is only one truth and that is Catholicism. I know really I should pray she will see the light. However, my sister used to be really unconfident and shy and now she is a mature young woman with a joyful and carefree spirit. She is so enthusiastic about Jesus and her church that I am puzzled why everyone is so perturbed by it. But that is what it’s like, being a Catholic.

I had never been to a different type of church. But off we went to the evening service on Bonfire Night and, as we huddled together around a large bonfire, Pastor Tony told us we can know God through Jesus and be reborn into a new life. Suddenly it all seemed to make sense. At the end he asked those who wished to know Jesus to go forward. This time I got up straight away and Tony smiled at me warmly as I went towards him to make my prayer. I asked the Lord to forgive my past sins and to come in and be a part of my life and that was when Jesus became a real person to me. At last I had found the way to God.

But, as I stood with Tony and he prayed with me, I remember becoming aware of an intense and throbbing pain in my left knee. The pain has not really gone away since but life has been so good I have hardly noticed it. Compared to the joy of becoming a committed Christian, it seemed insignificant. I felt as if my life was complete.

After I got converted in this way, I decided to move in from the fringes and mix more with members of the God Squad. Recently my life has revolved around folk group practices, going to chapel and other Christian youth events.

There is a sense of euphoria within the God Squad. We all feel that our lives have changed radically since we came to know Jesus personally. It is all about warmth and acceptance towards each other but, outside the group, we keep very much to ourselves. All the God Squad have been spending huge amounts of time singing and praying together and hanging out in chapel. It has begun to affect our work and everything. For the first time ever, I have got behind with my essays and homework. The thing is, it is meant to be all our lives we give to Jesus, not just a part of them. A lot of the girls try really hard and compete with each other by their attendance at Mass and folk group practices. Some of them are now praying in tongues. It basically means that they speak in this funny language. I suppose it sounds like gibberish and anyone listening would think that was what it was. They say it makes you feel all warm and peaceful. In fact, some of the girls have fallen over while praying. I mean, can you imagine? If Sister Maureen came in she would have a fit! She is our headmistress, and very prim and proper.

In all honesty, I have to admit to being a little confused by the fact that being a Christian does not make life trouble-free. Although I am filled with a tremendous love for Jesus, I do feel disappointed that I have lost a boyfriend and my marks at school are suffering because of doing all this religious stuff.

Just before Christmas, I decided to be more serious about keeping my body as a ‘temple of the Holy Spirit’ as it tells us to do in the Bible. So I worked out a strict regime of exercise, which means jogging two or three times a day. I am dieting now and I don’t eat anything unhealthy. All my breaks and lunchtimes are spent in chapel and I have friendships only within the God Squad. I go to Mass daily and I have also started reading scripture. I have not yet received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. By that I mean that I don’t yet pray in tongues or fall over or anything like that. I guess it is only a matter of time. I am so excited at the prospect; then I will be able to win back my brother and sister for the Catholic Church. That will really impress the God Squad. I have read in the gospels about the apostles receiving the Holy Spirit, performing miracles and converting thousands. We heard about another God Squad which converted the whole of their school and this is our mission now. Over Christmas we set ourselves the task of trying hard to convert our friends and families.

When the holidays started I was filled with a sense of well-being and contentment. My work picked up, my body seemed healthy and strong and I had this new faith, too. Then, on Christmas Eve, I had a conversation with my older brother, Martin. As usual we were arguing about Christianity and I was trying to convert him back.

‘Christianity is just a crutch for the weak,’ he said disparagingly. ‘And what about earthquakes and tidal waves and famine?’

I defended my corner as I have been taught in the God Squad: all things have a purpose and good comes out of anything, even bad stuff.

‘I bet you wouldn’t say that if it was you!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you were suffering. Say you had cancer or something. You wouldn’t be so keen then.’

‘Yes I would! But, anyway, that won’t happen, I won’t get cancer. Now I am a Christian, God will look after me. He won’t let bad things happen to me.’

My brother laughed at me and walked off with that annoying ‘big brother’ air of superiority. Actually, I felt he had won that round. I tidied away my books, looking forward to the enjoyable Christmas break I had promised myself. But I was disturbed by my brother’s comments. I pondered the whole question of suffering for a few minutes.

‘No, bad things won’t happen to me,’ I decided. ‘Not now, not ever.’ And I ran out of the room, filled with joyful anticipation. I thought that this would be the best Christmas ever!

A little later, Martin sought me out. It was late and icy cold. ‘Do you fancy a jog?’ he asked.

We often run together when he is home from university. I think he is quite proud of the fact that he has a sister who can almost outrun him and he takes my training as seriously as his own. He knows I have a big competition ahead. I have already represented my school and now I have a trial for the town cross-country team.

I groaned at the thought of leaving the warmth of home but sprinted up the stairs two at a time to put my running gear on. We fell into step together. The only sound I could hear was the rhythmic pounding of our training shoes as the frozen grass crunched beneath our feet. My heart soon slotted into the rhythm and I felt vibrant and alive. I tingled with the exertion of exercise and the euphoria of working my muscles.

When we got home, the heat inside the house made our faces glow. I became aware of the pain in my knee again while dressing after a hot soapy bath. I ran a hand over the smooth line of my muscles. I prodded around where the pain was and noticed the skin felt different. Even after the bath, I could still feel that my left knee was hotter than the other one and it seemed swollen.

Franny was curled up on the bed reading a textbook in preparation for her physiotherapy exams.

‘Franny, could you have a look at my knee?’

‘Is it still hurting you?’

‘Yes. I think the muscle is in spasm or something. My knee feels swollen. It feels like a lump.’

‘Yes, you’re right. It feels hot, too. The skin is red, look. You’d better show Dad.’

I expected him to say it was growing pains – all adults seem to use that cover-all excuse these days – but Dad spent a long time examining my leg. He even got out a tape measure and measured round my leg to see how swollen it was. He seemed distracted.

‘Mmm, it is definitely inflamed,’ and he checked the measurement again. ‘Is it very painful?’

‘Well, it does hurt. It’s hurt a couple of times over the last few months but I just thought that it was too much running.’

‘I see. We will need to get it checked out after Christmas,’ he said quietly as he left the room.

I looked at my watch. It was almost time for Midnight Mass, the high spot of Christmas. I pushed worries about the pain in my knee to the back of my mind and concentrated on getting ready for church.

Midnight Mass is a compulsory tradition in our family. We fill an entire church bench. My brother Adrian, at the organ, struck the chord of the first carol and I heard my mother’s beautiful voice leading the choir. We three sisters sat next to my dad while Martin switched off and looked bored. The church was decked festively with holly and red candles and a huge tree, the crib laid at the foot of the altar as it has been for every Christmas I can remember.

A priest led the procession into church and carefully placed the statue of the sleeping Jesus in the manger, nestling in the straw between the stone figures of Our Lady and St Joseph. The Mass was beautiful and seemed to mean so much more than it did last year. But now I know what it is all about, you see. I am expecting something more from Christmas this year. I have asked God to use me – I don’t know how, but I know that He always answers our prayers. Maybe lots of people will see the truth about Jesus or something like that. So this is what I thought about during the Mass, in between stretching out my sore leg to try and get rid of the discomfort. My dad looked at me and I thought maybe he was cross at me for fidgeting, but then he whispered and asked me if I was all right. I nodded, but by the end of the service I was in a lot of pain.

Somehow, Christmas Day itself was a bit of a let-down. Franny was ill in bed with flu and my brother spent the whole day at his girlfriend’s house. The rest of us had to go to Mass again while my mum cooked Christmas dinner. Mum was a bit worried about Franny being ill and upset about Martin not being home, and Dad seemed preoccupied, too. Franny made a brief appearance when we opened the presents which were piled under the tree. I felt a bit sad because there wasn’t one for me from Martyn. My parents bought me a gold cross and chain. It was very pretty and delicate and I put it on straight away. ‘I’ll never take it off,’ I told them.

I stretched out my leg again and Dad noticed.

‘Is it still hurting you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it’s very sore tonight,’ I said, as I winced in pain.

He told me that the following day, Boxing Day, he would ring Barry Peach, an old friend of his from medical school and an orthopaedic surgeon at our local hospital.

‘What’s an orthopaedic surgeon?’

‘A specialist doctor – someone who looks after bones and joints.’ I filed the information away for medical school …

Sitting here in Mr Peach’s tidy office, I replay in my mind my last run with my brother. The examination has now been completed and X-rays of my knee carried out. With a theatrical gesture, Mr Peach pins the picture up on a white illuminated box fixed on the wall in front of me.

‘See here, Little Lady,’ Mr Peach is pointing at the box, ‘this is the problem, just here.’ I look at the outline of my knee joint, labelling the bones for practice. ‘Patella, tibia, fibula and femur,’ I whisper under my breath, and Mr Peach smiles. And I see it – a large, white, hard lump, sitting on my bone in the wrong place.

‘A limpet,’ I think to myself. ‘It looks just like a limpet clinging to my leg.’

My mouth is suddenly dry and my palms begin to sweat. I feel hot and cold and very, very scared. My heart is pounding in my chest as if it will burst. The voices of my dad and Mr Peach seem to recede into the distance.

‘O God, don’t let it be cancer,’ I pray, more fervently than I would have thought possible. I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the Limpet is cruel, ugly and evil.

I lean forward and peer at it harder. Maybe by looking hard enough I can wish it away. I inspect my enemy and prepare myself for the fight ahead, for a fight I know there will be. Somewhere, deep inside, I know the Limpet will change my life beyond recognition. A terrifying and unknown beast, I realize it has the power to kill me. I know what it is. It is a tumour. It is Cancer with a big C. I’m dying.

‘I am too young, Limpet,’ I cry inside and I see I am hopelessly ill-equipped for this battle. I am a novice, a frightened soldier facing war for the first time.

‘Why? Why me? Why now?’ I ask despairingly.

The Limpet remains coldly and complacently silent.

God doesn’t answer me either.

2

In the distance I hear faint strains of music. I try to place the tune and recognize ‘Auld Lang Syne’. I open my eyes slowly. Lying flat on my back, I see a system of pulleys and ropes above me. I make to sit up but cry out as I feel agonizing pain in my left hip. Then comes the reassuring touch of another human hand.

‘It’s okay, Mary, you’ve had your operation.’ The nurse’s voice echoes, sounding too loud. ‘Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year.’

I am in the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool, and I have just had my biopsy operation. My Boxing Day consultation with Mr Peach was five brief days ago and the very next day he admitted me to Ward Eight. It is midnight on New Year’s Eve and I am waking up after surgery. I drift back into a heavy, drugged sleep.

Later, I awake on the first morning of 1983 with no idea what lies ahead for me this year. I manage to pull myself far enough up the bed to view the contraption that I seem to be a part of. My left leg is swathed from hip to toe in a heavy layer of bandages. A tight ring, made of leather, encircles the top of my thigh and is attached to a metal frame. The frame seems to be part of the pulley and rope system and a set of heavy metal weights finishes the whole thing off. I shift my position and pain shoots through my body. I realize it comes not from my leg but from my hip which is covered in dressings and has a large tube coming out of it. As I begin to panic at my strange and new surroundings, there is a knock on the door and Mr Peach sweeps in with a broad smile on his face.

‘And how is my Little Lady today, then?’

The contraption, he tells me, is called a Thomas Splint and will be with me for a while.

‘The operation was bigger than I thought would be necessary. We had to cut a lot of bone marrow away under the lump. There’s only a tiny wafer of bone left. That’s why you need the splint.’

‘So what did you fill the hole up with?’

‘We packed it with bone chips from your hip.’

‘Is that why my hip hurts, then?’ I am piecing together this puzzle.

‘Yes, that’s a bone graft and I’m afraid it will be very sore.’ He looks at me apologetically. ‘Be brave, Little Lady!’ I nod seriously, for I would do anything he tells me.

‘I have some more news.’ He is grave now. ‘Because the bone will be so weak, you will have to use a calliper to walk.’ I know what a calliper is. I have seen musty old photographs of my father wearing one after he had a leg operation as a child. My heart sinks and I try to imagine how I will manage at school and university. As if reading my thoughts, Mr Peach says I should delay my university entrance by a year because of the difficulties of getting around.

Anxiously, I ask Mr Peach how long I am going to be in my Thomas Splint.

‘I’m afraid it will be quite some time. Probably six weeks at least.’

‘How will I manage? It’s so uncomfortable!’

‘You will get used to it,’ he reassures me in his kindly way, ‘and we will help you all we can.’

It feels as if the bottom has dropped out of my world. I realize I will miss my mock A level examinations, maybe even my A levels themselves.

Mr Peach goes on to explain about the tubes draining my wound, the catheter in my bladder and the intravenous drip in my arm. I feel overwhelmed by my new situation but he pats my hand, inspiring me with confidence as he says: ‘Just think what a better doctor you will be for this.’

‘I know, I’ll be the best orthopaedic surgeon ever!’ I enthuse.

‘Well, you will need to get some muscles then, Little Lady!’ he laughs, and leaves the room that will now become my prison for the next six weeks.

Visitors arrive in droves. My mum and dad visit me often, appearing strained and worried. I reassure them by saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine with my calliper.’ My brothers and sisters, friends and school teachers drop in, too. I am in a great deal of pain, particularly from the hip graft, and I have lost a large amount of blood so I tire very easily. The immobility and discomfort from the Thomas Splint cause me to sleep badly and I soon feel very discouraged.

My sister Franny visits and she brings me cards with scripture verses and inspirational texts. ‘Why is this happening to me now?’ I ask her when the pain and tiredness become too much. ‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘But I do know that it says in the Bible that all situations can work together for good.’ She helps me find relevant and uplifting passages of scripture and they emphasize to me why I need to have a close and personal relationship with God.

The focus of my prayer is on healing. Mr Peach explains the bone tumour has been sent off for further tests. I know there is a chance that the results could show cancer but I am determined to prove the Lord in all this and I believe God can transform the Limpet into a benign and harmless lump.

So I ask for healing and I spend more and more time praying for it. I read the gospels through, concentrating on the miracles to see how they are done. I realize that having faith is an important factor. A priest visits me and prays over my leg, placing his hands where I had the operation, now a mound of thick crepe bandages.

‘Lord, we believe You can heal Mary,’ he prays in a quiet intense voice. ‘We ask You to glorify Yourself and make Mary well.’ Then he prays in the words of the Spirit – the language of tongues. I am fascinated to hear the soft, unintelligible noises and they soothe my troubled mind. I am convinced that because the Spirit of God is present our prayers will be answered.

I have made friends with the young house officer on our ward. He breezes in, always cheerful and considerate.

‘How are you, Trouble?’ he says in his soft Irish voice.

‘Fine, Dr Murphy, fine.’

‘Call me Jimmy, as you’re going to be a med student.’

‘Did you know God’s going to heal me, Jimmy?’

‘To be sure He will, but maybe it will be through modern medicine.’

‘Nope!’ I exclaim. ‘You see, I love the Lord and He won’t let me suffer! I’ll walk out of this hospital on two strong legs!’

He is the first of many visitors and nurses to whom I witness in this way.

A few days after my operation, several nurses on the ward realize I am feeling lonely and isolated in my side room. Ward Eight is a female orthopaedic ward and all the patients are immobile and elderly. Although I get plenty of visitors during the evenings, my days are long and tedious. Fixed in one position in my bed, I can’t go anywhere. I find it difficult to concentrate on books and I have listened and re-listened to my music tapes. Early one morning the door bursts open.

‘Surprise!’ shout three voices in unison and three young lads file into my room in wheelchairs.

‘I’m Steve.’

‘I’m Pete.’

‘And I’m Barry.’

‘Well, I’m Mary!’ I reply, eagerly. ‘But what are you all doing here?’

‘We’ve come to sympathize,’ says Steve. ‘We all had Thomas Splints for weeks so we know how awful it can be.’

‘So what did you all do to your legs, then?’ I ask.

They tell their stories which are basically the same: motorbike accidents. ‘Barry’s was the worst,’ says Steve. ‘He almost lost his leg but Mr Peach saved it.’ Barry smiles shyly at me. He seems the quietest of the three.

‘I had my splint for twelve weeks,’ he says, ‘and my leg’s still in a brace.’ I look at his leg extended in front of him, two large pins through his bones fixed to a metal contraption. ‘At least I have my leg, though.’ He smiles again at me.

We swop stories and they give me hints on how to cope with my splint. The room seems very quiet and empty when they have left. I am in a great deal of pain from the hip graft and the splint becomes more and more uncomfortable. It seems that, no matter which way I move, the leather of the ring bites into my soft flesh. I ache to be outside in the bright fresh air of crisp winter days. There is a tiny window in my room, but behind me; it feels as if light and colour have disappeared from my life. However, as the days progress and friends and neighbours hear of my predicament my room begins to fill with cards and flowers.

‘Just a few days more,’ I think to myself, ‘and my prayers will see an answer.’ The biopsy results are due and I am sure that God has healed me.

The Ward Six boys visit me often now. I begin to witness to them, explaining God can change them and heal them.

‘Why did God allow my bike to crash, then?’ asks Peter. ‘He certainly wasn’t looking out for me that day.’

‘And what about my short leg?’ asks Barry in his soft cheerful voice. ‘I will always have to wear a boot, which will make me look awful.’

It troubles me that I feel so much doubt when I look at the problems in life which really hurt. How could God allow these young boys’ lives to be damaged for ever? I am told I must not doubt God and my faith will heal me. And yet peace eludes me. I feel worried and anxious, ill and tired.

January 6 is a special day in the Catholic calendar. The twelfth day of Christmas coincides with the feast of the Epiphany. Nobody visits me. The hours pass and no-one appears. I feel even lonelier when I think about everyone being busy taking down Christmas trees and packing away decorations for next year. The crib figures will be carefully placed in their straw beds and stowed away.

In the evening, Dr Jimmy comes into my room.

‘Jimmy,’ I ask him, ‘do you think God wants to heal me?’ He looks at me and I am stunned to see tears in his eyes.

‘Oh, Mary,’ he sighs, ‘I don’t know the answer to that. I wish I did.’ He seems troubled, but then I know from our conversations that life as a house officer is not easy.

‘So why are you here so late, Jimmy?’ I continue, trying to sound cheerful.

‘Well, I’m a vampire tonight,’ he laughs, seeming to have recovered his usual good mood. ‘I need to take your blood, Little Lady.’

‘Why do you need to do that?’ I know this is out of the usual routine.

‘Well, tomorrow we have to take you to the operating theatre.’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘To … check your dressings.’

‘Do I need to go to sleep for that, then?’ I ask, surprised, as the nurses have checked my dressings several times already in previous days.

‘Yes, you do – it could be painful,’ he replies slowly, concentrating on his task.

‘So what’s the transfusion for?’ I ask curiously, noticing a form requesting a blood cross-match. After a moment’s silence, Jimmy looks up from my arm.

‘You ask too many questions for a patient. You might bleed when we take off the dressings.’

I meet him directly in the eyes and he looks away. I know he is not telling the truth but inside me a voice urges silence ‘It’s not the appointed time’ – the words flood into my mind from nowhere. The question forming on my lips dies and I look at the young doctor again. He smiles awkwardly.

‘Okay, Jimmy,’ I reply instead. He relaxes visibly – and I feel a wave of fear flood over me.

‘Get a good night’s sleep now, won’t you,’ he advises, leaving my room.

When he has gone the silence is heavy and oppressive. I know something is going on and I feel bewildered and lonely. Closing my eyes I try to pray, but the words will not form. ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘I am scared, so scared. Please help me.’ I lie back against the pillow and close my eyes against the troubling world. The nurses bring me my tablets and I gulp them down eagerly. I want to be asleep and away from my anxiety. I pray quietly to myself and repeat over and over again the words that I have read in the Bible: ‘Be not afraid, be not afraid.’ Soon the fear is swallowed up in sleep.

I awake suddenly and, despite the heavy dose of sleeping tablets and painkillers, I am immediately alert. I am filled with a sense of expectancy. The room is becoming light and soon I am bathed in the brightest, purest light I have ever known. I know there is a physical presence in the right-hand corner of the room. The Presence is very tall and strong, reaching almost to the ceiling. For a few seconds I wait fearlessly as I know, somehow, that I am not in danger. I become aware of a deep peace filling me and I feel warm and joyful inside. The Presence moves towards me and instinctively I shuffle to one side to make more room. He sits on the edge of my bed and I am awe-struck by his physical size and strength. Suddenly I feel very, very safe. The peace within me becomes more and more overwhelming and streams of silent tears roll down my cheeks. Unexpectedly, sounds begin to form in my mouth. I do not know what language this is, so strange and unfamiliar, but I cannot seem to stop it. The words soothe me completely. They form clearly in my mind and I know they are being spoken to me directly by the Presence. Who or what is he? I do not know, but he is not of this world.

‘Mary, I will lead you through the valley of the shadow of death,’ the Presence says, ‘but do not fear any evil, for I will bring you through.’

I know the words to be true and I sleep deeply and peacefully, sensing I am being watched over. When I wake I am aware that today, Friday 7 January, is to be a day like no other. I recall the previous night’s experiences completely, calmly and naturally. I have glimpsed another spiritual realm, more powerful than any earthly state, and I wait for something to happen.

My room remains quiet for several hours, the usual hubbub of breakfast being denied me because of my visit to the operating theatre. A little later there is a tap on the door and Mr Peach enters. As soon as my eyes meet his I know something is wrong. He sits on my bed, exactly where the Presence sat, and takes my hand in his. I look at him trustingly.

‘Well, Little Lady.’ He speaks softly. ‘You must be brave. That old lump – well, it was a nasty old thing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid the lump was cancer.’

My world stops. I turn my head away, my mind searching frantically, desperately, for an alternative.

‘Oh, God, no, not cancer.’

‘There is an operation we could do. It wouldn’t guarantee anything – but it would give you a chance.’

‘What sort of operation?’ I ask hesitantly, unable to imagine anything more extreme than what I have already undergone.

‘We could remove your leg.’ The words fall out cautiously.

‘My leg? You would take my leg? My whole leg?’

Mr Peach nods. His eyes, holding mine, cry with me.

‘Yes, my Little Lady,’ he whispers. ‘We need to amputate your leg.’ His hand holds mine tightly and I draw strength from him.

In a moment’s silence I contemplate all I had planned. My whole future: becoming a doctor, marrying, bearing children. In a few anguished seconds I see my world collapse.

‘How can I still be a doctor? With one leg? Is it possible?’

Mr Peach looks at me thoughtfully as he balances hope and realism.

‘It is possible … I have a friend, an orthopaedic surgeon. His leg was amputated because of cancer.’

‘And if I don’t have it? What then?’

‘If we don’t operate you will certainly die.’

Time stands still as I take it in.

‘And …’ I pause. ‘Will I live if my leg is taken?’

‘Possibly. There’s a chance at least. You will need to have chemotherapy, though.’

I have heard about chemotherapy. My friend’s sister nursed on a leukaemia ward and she told us about drugs that make patients bald and infertile.

‘If I have chemotherapy, will my hair fall out?’

‘Yes, every last hair.’

‘And will I be infertile?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ he replies carefully. ‘You will not be able to have children.’

I consider the options, minutes seeming like hours.

‘Shall we operate then?’ Mr Peach asks me.

‘Yes, take my leg. I don’t want to die. I’ll be okay, you’ll see.’

He assents gravely and looks at me. ‘It’s a brave decision, Mary, but I would choose the same.’

‘And I will be a doctor, Mr Peach.’

He is visibly relieved the decision is made.

‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘I truly believe you.’

‘Shall we pray, Mr Peach?’ He looks surprised.

‘Yes, let’s do that. Let’s pray I will do a good job and you will get through all this.’

So the surgeon and the patient hold hands and pray the Lord’s prayer together. ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth …’

Even as I say the words I wonder: ‘Surely this is not Your will, for I cannot believe that?’

‘Your mum and dad are outside, Mary,’ Mr Peach tells me, and I panic.

Now I realize why my family didn’t visit the previous day. They were at home, being told the awful news.

‘But how will they ever cope with this?’ I ask, knowing their dreams for me will also be shattered.

‘They are strong, Little Lady, like you.’ I agree, trustingly, willing to place everything into the hands of somebody strong and capable.

Mum and Dad enter the tiny airless room. I feel guilty; guilty that I have brought all this sadness upon them. Mum walks over to the window, tears blurring her unseeing vision. Dad sits on the bed and squeezes my hand too tight. They speak but I cannot hear them. I talk but I do not know what I say. They cry a lot and I realize I have never seen my dad cry before. They reassure me and tell me things will turn out but I feel older than them.

Falteringly I begin, ‘I know about my leg. I have cancer. It is serious. I could die. They say they will take my leg and I can’t have children and my hair will fall out.’

But then I add: ‘You know that stuff about God and all that? Well, I still believe it.’

Strangely, as well, I do. I know I have already glimpsed beyond the grave.

‘I will miss my leg,’ I say simply. There is no other way to tell it.

A little later, I say goodbye to it. I reach forward and strain to touch my foot, the only part of my leg not covered in bandages. I tickle my big toe.

But God always answers prayers and God can do anything, say the priests. Does that mean maybe I won’t have to lose my leg? I can still pray for a miracle. The cancer might disappear. Yes, that’s it, I decide. God will glorify Himself by transforming the cancer. All things are possible, the Bible says, and I believe those words. I have to, for the alternative is unthinkable.

I am given a tablet. I feel sleepy, so sleepy. I am wheeled down a corridor. I look up and see my dad striding alongside. It is cold and draughty and I see bright lights above me. A kind man talks to me and lifts up a syringe. As I drift into unconscious blackness, crying, I feel a finger reach over and tickle my toes. I believe with every fibre of my being that, when I wake up, my leg will still remain.

I awake into a world of silence. It is pitch black. I think I am dead. Then I remember the surgery. I strain to become aware of some bodily sensation. I try to focus my mind.

‘Where are my hands?’ I think, and I feel them. Slowly and heavily, I lift them. They are like lead weights. I reach down towards my leg but then another hand catches mine and restrains me. I do not fight, for I cannot. I let my arms flop down on the bed. My brain is beginning to work again.

‘My leg, how does it feel?’ I wonder. Then I become aware of a tickle on my left foot; it is my big toe. Yes, I can definitely feel it! My leg is still there. I concentrate with all my power. Every inch of my leg is there; toes, heel, knee and thigh. I feel the reassuring pressure of my heel on the mattress and the blankets touching the tip of my toe, the throbbing pain in my knee and the biting metal of the Thomas Splint.

‘Thank you, God,’ I pray. ‘Thank you that the miracle worked and I still have my leg!’ I drift back into the most wonderful of dreams, smiling.

When I open my eyes again the dawn is breaking and a pale light fills the room. Mum and Dad have been here day and night for me but, at this instant, I am alone. The figure who sat with me through the night is gone. I remember my leg has been cured. I can feel it, warm and still beside my good one. I try to move it … but it seems to be paralysed for some reason. Perhaps, I think, it is fastened to a splint. I reach down with my hand to explore. I put my hand on my thigh but I feel the cotton of the sheets. Blindly, I grope around but I cannot find my leg. I strain and lift my head, and see the truth.

I can hear a voice screaming and screaming. I wonder whose it is and then I realize it is mine. A nurse runs to me.

‘My leg! Where is my leg?’ I scream and do not stop until my mother steps back into the room and her kind voice breaks into my terror.

‘Mary,’ she sobs, ‘your leg is gone.’

‘But I can feel it, I know it’s there!’

She says gently: ‘That’s not really your leg. It is your phantom leg. It is a trick of your mind.’

This mental torture is more agonizing than anything I will ever know again – anguish at the deception of my own body. I have no leg now, only a sensation of one. I want to feel nothing. I do not want a reminder of all I have lost. Even the tumour pain still mocks me; the evil Limpet which caused this grief still reminds me of its presence. Not so much pain, more the suggestion of pain. Worse than pain. Impossible to put into words.

‘The miracle,’ I whisper to my mum but she can’t hear me. She smoothes my forehead with a cold damp cloth. She shakes her head, not understanding.

‘It didn’t work, Mum. The miracle didn’t happen after all.’

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